country was in an uproar, and would have
pelted the gang of brigands with Logan
Rocks, if possible. How the Admiralty
quietly ordered their smart Lieutenant to
replace the Logan Rock as it was before,
on pain of losing his commission. How the
guides looked on and grinned, while the sulky,
shame-faced sailors were straining away at
their machinery. How at last they got it
back again, though even now, they say, it
does not rock quite so beautifully as before.
The Lieutenant had had enough of it before
he had done. It was an excellent lesson to
those gentry who take mischief for wit; who
believe lamp-breaking to be a highly
intellectual amusement; and who would glory in
having executed a brilliant sally, by decapitating
the Dying Gladiator, breaking the legs
of Apollo Belvidere, or knocking off the
Venus de Medici's nose.

The printed accounts of this honourable
exploit read as if our naval iconoclast had
thrown the Logan Rock down, from the
summit of what I have called the Cyclopean
wall, into the hollow beneath it. Such was
not the case; had it been so, he would have
had considerably more difficulty in settling
his accounts with the Admiralty. He merely
turned it over on one side: but that was
enough to destroy its character. There it
lay, a poor, prostrate, defunct Rocking Stone:
the bread was snatched out of the Guides'
mouths; and the inn, in spite of its then
historical sign, might shut up shop.

Nestor is intelligent and obliging, though
utterly free from toadyism—a disreputable
habit which I never once witnessed among
the working people of Cornwall. Nestor
thinks I should like a well-rooted specimen
of Asplenium marinum—pronouncing the
name accurately—to take home; and
procures one from a chink in the granite. While
accepting the fern, I thank him for this
attention, and whisper in his ear that there
is one thing I do long for and earnestly
desire, and that is, to see, and to procure, a
pair of live Cornish daws—those charming
birds with the red legs and bill. Nestor
ruminates;—would if he could, but there are
no daws here at present. I must search
elsewhere; and I am once more thrown on
the flat of my back almost desponding. We
retire, gratified confessedly; but with at
least one craving of the heart unsatisfied.

Look! what a state my gloves are in, from
holding on so tight to your tiresome rocks!
A blind man would say he was handling a
mountain of nutmeg-graters.

Your gloves, indeed! What a thing to
think about in such a spot! Think, rather,
of the hundreds and hundreds of miserable
wretches who have looked up from those
waters to these very rocks, in desperate hope
of climbing them; who have grasped some
jutting point with their naked flesh, all torn
and bleeding, till strength failed and the wave
drew them back to bury them in the deep.

You remember the little islet we saw at
the Land's End, off Cape Cornwall? Not
long since, a man and his wife, shipwrecked
there, managed to crawl up to one of its
ledges, beyond the reach of the breakers.
They were seen by the people on the
mainland, but no boat could reach them. The
storm continued to rage, and no assistance
could be afforded,—pity only. There they sat
on that rocky islet, night and day—cold, wet,
unsheltered, and starving. The weather
subsided a little, and a few bold men determined
to rescue them, if possible. A boat was
launched: they rowed to the rock as near as
they dared without being dashed to pieces;
a rope was thrown to them, to tie round them
and be dragged to the boat through the sea.
The woman hesitated; but it was the only
chance, and she was persuaded. One last
embrace, one parting kiss, and she made the
plunge. She was got into the boat alive, and
that was all. The rope was thrown to the
man, and he, too, was thus dragged into the
boat. But the suffering and the shock were
too much for his partner; she died almost
immediately. He was safely landed, and
kindly treated; but went mad.

We will bid good-bye to the Logan Rock
with a less doleful recollection. Some dozen
years ago a French vessel was wrecked near
this famous stone. The crew were all saved—
which vindicates the character of the present
Cornish from the old charge of cruelty as
wreckers; but property was not then so
carefully looked after by the Coast-Guard as
now; and a great deal of Champagne came
ashore, and was dispersed in the neighbourhood.
The people seemed to regard it as a
superior sort of ginger-pop, and to be ignorant
of its intoxicating properties; so that, without
the least suspicion on their part, they were
kept in a constant state of excitement for
some weeks. So long as it lasted, a bottle of
Champagne could easily be had by any lion-
hunting tourist who had penetrated so far.

And what am I to do about my Cornish
Choughs, now? I don't know; I never was
more at a loss in my life. Day after day,
and can't catch sight of a tip of a wing.
Have them I must; but whether I am lucky
enough to track them in their British home,
or to find them amongst the peaks of the
Tyrol, or along the shores of the Bay of
Biscay, my friends shall be sure to hear of it.

A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.
CHAPTER XVI.

ROGER MORTIMER, the Queen's lover (who
escaped to France in the last chapter), was
far from profiting by the examples he had
had of the fate of favourites. Having,
through the Queen's influence, come into
possession of the estates of the two Despensers,
he became extremely proud and ambitious,
and sought to be the real ruler of England.